UBRARY OF CONGRES 

OOOlSDSSbOl 



^mm: 




flass V" £ \ 1 3 
B00k_ 



CONTENTS. 






BALLADS. 




A Breton Legend .... 


9 


Pictures in the Fire 


15 


Gerda ..... 


• . 19 


The Indian's Message . 


26 


EULALIE, I., II., III. . 


31 


The Jungfrau . 


35 


The Maid of the Morass . 


. 37 


Tawasentha Lake 


40 


The Mariner . 


.• 45 


The "Wanderer .... 


48 


June Evening . 


58 


Dirge of Adonis . . 


61 


Bagatelle . 


66 


The Viking .... 


68 


The Rose Wreaths . 


76 



4 CONTENTS. 

HISTORICAL BALLADS. 

LuTZEN ...... 81 

Lament op Abd-el-Rhaman ... 91 
Francis II. at Gaeta . . . .93 

The Battle op Yermouk ... 99 

El Zagal . . 103 

MOSENNA . . , 109 

Hakem ... . 113 

TRANSLATIONS. 

To Spring 119 

To the Ro*se ..... 120 

From Hecuba ..... 121 

Chorus prom Hecuba .... 124 
From a Chorus in Alcestis . . .127 

From a Chorus in Alcestis . . . 129 

Harald the Valiant . 131 

Funeral Song op Hacon . . . 134 

Note to Harald ..... 141 

Note to Hacon . . . 143 



BALLADS 



nVHJIrWsrterJr. 



BALLADS 



TRANSLATIONS 



OONSTANTDTA E. BEOOKS. 



NEW TOEK: 

D. APPLETON & CO., 443 akd 445 BROADWAY. 

LONDON : 

16 LITTLE BRITAIN. 

1866. 



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Entered acoording to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by C. E. BROOKS, in the Clerk'g 
Office of the District Court of the United State3 for the Southern District of New Tork. 



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BALLADS. 



A BRETON LEGEND. 



At dead of night, when the northern blast 
Drives onward the white waves fierce and fast, 
When the moon looks down like a sheeted ghost 
On the sea-rent rocks of the Breton coast ; 

When the raven shrieks a dismal tone 

From the blood-dyed sacrificial stone — 

The fisherman starts ! through the breakers' roar 

A soft tap comes on his cottage-door ! 

" Now what means this ? " — forth does he peer- 
Nought does he see and nought does he hear — 
Nought does he see save the clouds that sail 
O'er the granite cliffs of Cornuaille. 
1* 



10 BALLADS. 

" Now what means this ? " — around him are cast 
The arms of his wife, and she holds him fast ; 
He feels her shudder, he hears her speak : 
" The frith is rough and the night is bleak- - 

■" The frith is rough — thy boat would'st launch ? 
It would perish to-night, be it ever so staunch — 
See over the furze moor, over the hill, 
The huts of the fisherman dark and still." 

A tap on his door — he knows it well — 
" Thy lip is blanched, and thy heart doth swell ! 
Oh, stay by thy hearth-fire, ruddy and bright — 
Sail not on the angry frith to-night ! " 

No answer he makes — one kiss on her face, 
He casts her away from his fond embrace, 
And downward goes with a faltering tread — 
Downward and down — to the Bay of the Dead. 

There, rocked on the surf, lies a freighted barque, 
Its shape is strange, and its color is dark ; 
Nought does he hear, and nought does he see, 
But 'tis freighted with ghostly company. 



BALLADS. 11 

Freighted so heavy, and freighted so low, 
O'er its slimy edge the ripples flow — 
Freighted so low to the ocean's brim 
That dashes the salt spray over its rim. 

Fisherman — fisherman ! enter and steer ! 
Nor fair winds court, nor foul winds fear ! 
On and on, and over the sea 
Pilot the barque with its company. 

The fisherman shudders, and well he may — 
He sees on the spectre-haunted bay 
Gleam over the waters, mile on mile, 
The torch-red light of the Druid isle. 

Over the rush and over the roar 

He hears the wail from the Druid shore, 

A woman's weird, prophetic strain, 

The Druidess' chant from the isle of Sein. 

On, still on — far over the sea 
Floateth the ghostly company — 
Till far behind in the moonlight pale 
Lie the granite cliffs of Cornuailie. 



12 BALLADS. 

They pass the isles — they pass the caves, 
Alone on the wide and trackless waves, 
Till the beetling crags loom over the Sound, 
And warn — they are nearing the Britain ground. 

Now who shall land in a night like this ? 
The giant surges coil and hiss — 
They break, they roar up the mountain-side 
Hollowed and seamed with the seething tide ! 

But over the surf and off from the sea 

The freighted, craft leaps fearlessly — 

Off from the sea, and over the surf 

The prow almost touches the fresh green turf. 

Through the gloom, afar as eye may reach, 
Trend inland the old woods from the beach, 
The oaks of a thousand years — they sigh 
With the breath of the gale eternally. 

What sounds from their innermost bosom float ? 
Some lonely night-bird's mournful note ? 
No — the fisherman hears a soft voice swell, 
And he sits entranced by its magic spell. 



BALLADS. 13 

Like the rustle of leaves when the noontide-hour 
Is hushed ere the fall of the summer-shower, 
That low, sweet sound floats down to the bay 
And summons the ghostly crew away. 

Their names are called — their journey is done — 
They go from the benches oue by one — 
Little by little the keel grows light, 
Till it dances, a chip, on the foamy height. 

Now, fisherman, row ! the stars pale*fast, 
The morning scent is on the blast — 
Now, fisherman, row with might and main ! 
Back — back to the Breton coast again ; 

For if the daybeam's kindling spark 
Finals thee afloat in that stranger barque, 
To-morrow night thyself will be 
One of that ghostly company ! 

So night by night w*hen the wan clouds sail 
O'er the granite cliffs of Cornuaille, 
And the Druidess' chant, like a cry of pain, 
Comes up from the mystic isle of Sein — 



14 BALLADS. 

The fisherman starts from his rugged bed, 
And downward wends to the Bay of the Dead, 
Over the Straight — through the breakers' roar- 
To ferry the dead to Britain's shore. 

And this is why — when the conquering Franks 
Poured over the dark blue Rhine their ranks, 
To -vex with spoil and tribute all 
The fiefs and harvest-lands of Gaul ; 

The fishermen on those rocks so bare 
From tax and toll exempted were, 
Since theirs the task to ferry o'er 
The souls of the dead to Britain's shore. 



BALLADS. 15 



PICTURES IX THE FIRE. 



As the hearth-fire roaring, blazing, 
Warms the long December night, 

What strange pictures thought is tracing 
In its red and golden light ; 

Childhood in its realms enchanted — 
With its joys, its wishes crowned — 

And its legends wild and haunted, 
As the Christmas-tide comes round, 

With its fairy tasks and graces — 
With its evening hymn's soft swell — 

Laughs and freaks and smiling faces, 
And its pets — ah, loved how well ! 



16 BALLADS. 

With the world so fair before it, 
With its hours of heart-felt mirth, 

And the beams of heaven still o 1 er it, 
Lending their own hues to earth. 

In the hearth -lire roaring, gleaming, 
Pale those visions bright have grown ; 

Youth with pensive eye sits dreaming 
Of the future's vast unknown. 

Youth ! the past and future lending 
Each its beauties, each its truth, 

In one golden glow are blending 
Round the magic hours of youth. 

Learning's paths in endless number 
Then their vistas fair unroll, 

Then the harpstrings wake from slumber 
Each soft passion of the soul. 

Then the heart, ere grief has reft it 
Of its earliest, freshest flowers, 

Tastes the bliss that sole is left it 
Pure from our lost Eden's bowers. 



BALLADS. 

Still the hearth-fire bright is glowing ; 

Youth has sped on noiseless feet, 
Gentler cares succeed, bestowing 

Graver thoughts but not less sweet ; 

And new tiny feet, new voices 
Gather round, new happy hearts ; 

All that charms us and rejoices 
Home's enchanted bound imparts. 

Consummated are life's pleasures 
One by one as counted o'er, 

And the full heart clasps its treasures, 
Even its own — forevermore. 

Still the flickering hearth-fire flashes, 
Hark ! w r as 't distant music's sound ? 

Lightly falling — sparks and ashes 
Gather dull and dead around. 

But those visions, fair and cherished 
In the hearth-fire lately seen — 

Were they of Avhat was and perished— 
Or what only might have been ? 



17 



1 R BALLADS. 

Both or either — can it matter ? 

Both are nothing — all is still 
Save the heavy raindrops' patter, 

And the storm upon the hill. 



BALLADS. 1 9 



GERDA. 

Loud on the lattice splashed the rain, 
The midnight storm was drear, 

When came a tap on Gerda's pane, 
A voice tf as in her ear, — 

'Awake, my love, my locks are wet, 

My steed pants for the way ; 
Give me one smile, one kind word yet, 

Ere we two part for aye." 

" The hour is late, the storm is high, 
Thy face is pale to see ; 
Dismount, my lord, thy locks I'll dry, 
And set some food for thee." 



20 BALLADS. 

" It may not be, I cannot stay, 
Hark to the distant sea— 
And shrieks along the mountain way — 
A summons 'tis for me. 

O Gerda! ere thy faith and mine 
Were plight, my faith was given 

To one nor human nor divine, 
And not of earth or heaven. 

Deep in the sea she rears her bower. 
She claims my promise plight ; 

She summons with resistless power, 
Our bridal is to-night." 

" And if thy bridal is to-night, 
And if 'tis not with me, 
Then never morning's hateful light 
Again these eyes shall see. 

Dismount, my Hacon, why this haste- 
What idle dreams are those ? 

Come, in thy Gerda's cottage taste 
Refreshment and repose. " 



BALLADS. 21 

" Give me a cup of water, dear, 
He'll guard thee in whose Name 
One cup of water given here 
A cup of life may claim." 

" Call thou then on that Name, be sure 
Before that Name no spell, 
Nor charm, nor magic, shall endure, — 
In heaven, or earth, or hell." 

" Hark to the thunder of the sea — 
And shrieks along the dell ; 
No hope, nor aid, nor prayer, for me; — 
One kiss — dear love — farewell." 

" Awake — awake — my brother dear, 
Hacon this night will ride, 
Nor broken faith nor vengeance fear, 
To win a bonny bride. 

And was not I to be his bride ? 

Was not his promise plight? 
Arise, my brother, we must ride 

Fast on his track to-night. 



22 BALLADS. 

For if his bridal is to-night, 

And if 'tis not with me, 
Then never morning's hateful light 

Again these eyes shall see." 

Now she has donned her best attire, 

Her hood and sandals gray, 
The raindrops plash, the skies are fire ; 

The coursers speed away. 

A thousand graves below, around, 
Yawn 'neath the lightning's streak, 

And ghosts start up with moaning sound, 
And opening coffins creak. 

Along the city's miry street 

Loud beats the sullen rain, 
With blood-red eyes, and faster feet, 

The coursers speed amain. 

" O brother, brother, hold my rein ; 
My rash vow I revoke ; 
Heaven will not smile on vengeance ta'en, 
Or words in anger spoke.'* 



BALLADS. 23 

" Nay, thou hast sworn that morning's light 
No more those eyes should see ; 
And I that Hacon for this slight 
Should vengeance pay to me." 

The soil is soft, the weeds are rank, 

And dark lakes stretch around, 
And poisonous fogs hang o'er the bank, 

And hide the slippery ground. 

The hill is steep, the plain is wide, 

The loud rains plash amain, 
They thunder up the mountain side, 

And toil along the plain. 

"0 brother, brother, hold my rein, 
My rash vow I revoke ; 
Heaven will not smile on vengeance ta'en, 
Or words in anger spoke." 

" Nay, thou hast sworn that morning's light 
No more those eyes should see ; 
And I that Hacon for this slight 
Should vengeance pay to me." 



24 BALLADS. 

The red morn gleamed along the shore, 

And loud the red cock crew, 
As faster toward the breakers' roar 

The steeds resistless flew. 

Hark! o'er the waters slow 

Booms a passing hell ; 
Hark! sea-nymphs ring below 

A long and doleful knell. 

" Thy love sleeps calm on amber rocks 
Strewn with whitest sands, 
The cold wave lifts his sable locks, 
Tangle binds his hands. 

Sea-shells murmur anthems strange, 
Naiads smooth his face, 

Plant bright corals, and arrange 
His limbs with decent grace. 

Come and share thy lover's rest, 

Soft the billows swell, 
Sea-weed is the bridal vest, 

A dirge the bridal bell." 



BALLADS. 25 



Thrice the heavy death- knell tolls 

Calling sad and slow ; 
Thrice are prayers said for the souls 

Of those that sleep below. 



26 BALLADS. 



THE INDIAN'S MESSAGE. 

Loudly through the dark pine forest 
Moans the morning blast amain, 

As the lonely Indian journeys 

Swiftly towards the northern plain : 

Sees where from the white man's village 
Smoke goes curling towards the west ; 

By the white man's lonely churchyard 
Sits he down awhile to rest. 

Suddenly there stood beside him 
A strange Indian, tall and proud ; 

"Wan and ghastly were his features, 
And he wore a snow-white shroud. 



BALLADS. 



27 



" On Missouri's banks my war-cry 
Once led up the foeman's track, 
Where my Sioux from the battle 
Empty-handed ne'er came back. 

" Many a hundred miles I journeyed 
By my father's grave to stand ; 
And I sickened, pined and died here, 
Died here in the white man's land. 

"In a snow-white shroud they wrapped me, 
And a narrow coffin gave, 
And among their kindred laid me, 
In a dark and dismal grave. 

"Placed they by my side no hatchet, 
And no paints to deck my face, 
In my hand no bow and arrows, 
And no trophies of the chase. 

" With no tomahawk beside me, 
With no trophies in my hand, 
How was I to meet my fathers 
In the distant spirit-land? 



28 BALLADS. 

" Many a weary year I've listened 
For the well-known Indian tread, 
For a brother Indian passing 
In the grass above my head. 

"By great Manitou I charge thee 
Seek my kindred and my tribe. 
Tell them how I pined and sickened, 
And my lonely grave describe. 

" Tell them to bring here my hatchet, 
Bows and arrows in my hand, 
And in beads and feathers dress me 
To adorn the spirit-land. 

"Put aside this cold dark coffin, 

Prisoning here my wearied form, 
Bring my furs and spoils of hunting, 
Wrap me in my mantle warm. 

" Tell them how I scorned the white man 
With his creed of pomp and pride, 
Deigned to him no word or answer, 
Prayed to Manitou, and died. 



BALLADS. 29 

" And by the Great Spirit charge them 
Never let the war-cry cease, 
Never be the hatchet buried, 
Never smoked the pipe of peace ! 

" If we dare retaliation, 

Loud they blazon forth our shame, 
Frame complaints, and call down vengeance 
On the Indian's injured name. 

" Who first reaped our rightful harvests ? 
Trampled on our fathers' graves? 
Scorned our wives, and slew our children, 
And of freemen made us slaves ? 

" Who first wove the web of treason? 
First made faith and treaties vain ? 
War eternal on the white man 
Can alone efface the stain ! 

" See, the east grows red ; I charge thee 
Once more, warn my Sioux braves ; 
Let them dye in blood their hatchets 
Far along Missouri's waves ! 



30 BALLADS. 

" Hark — the cock crows ! — I must hasten 
To the lonely grave they made me, 
To the dark and narrow coffin 

Where the hated white man laid me ! " 



BALLADS. 31 



EULALIE. 



I. 



When barren were the fern and copse, 
And loud the north wind's sweep, 

And on the moors and mountain tops 
The yellow leaves lay deep ; 

Thy hands a golden garland sought 

Far through the faded bowers, 
For me — sweet Eulalie — and wrought 

Of autumn's latest flowers. 

The long months passed with frost and snow, 

And cold clear skies above — 
And earth once more awoke, to glow 

With bursting life and love : 



32 BALLADS. 

Some withered violets came to me 
From far beyond the wave — 

Spring's earliest flowers, sweet Eulalie, 
And gathered on thy grave. 



II. 



If thy brief life of love, so blest 
So beauteous in its grace divine, 

Awoke one longing in my breast — 

One pang that such could ne'er be mine — 

With what a deeper longing, how 
I envy now thy tranquil sleep — 

The heart that swells not, sinks not now, 
The eye that will not wake to weep. 

And thou, in thy cold English grave — 
I, with thine image in my heart — 

HE who our various fortunes gave 
May say, whose is the better part : 



BALLADS. 33 

Thou, at His feet in joy serene, 

Forgetting earth's vain sorrowings — 

I, hurried through life's restless scene, 
And troubled about many things. 



III. 

With what a longing do I turn 
To yon blue mansions of the blest, 

To thee, my gentle friend, and yearn 
To be with thee, to be at rest ! 

To clasp that hand so warm of yore, 
To mark that heart with rapture swell, 

And hear that voice that nevermore 

Shall breathe the hated word — farewell ! 

And thou hast left me ; but the track 

Thy feet have pressed I travel fast ; 

To my poor home thou com'st not back, 

But T will enter thine at last. 
2* 



34 BALLADS. 

How like a midnight dream, and less, 
This life will seem to thee and me, 

As age on age of blessedness 
Rolls on in our eternity ! 



BALLADS. 35 



THE JUNGFRAU. 

The hunter toiled o'er the Jungfrau height, 
Whose calm, eternal peak of snow 

Was rosy with the sunset light ; 

Deep lay the valleys wrapped in night ; 
And wearily he toiled and slow ; 

When, on the steep ascent, there glides 

A snow-white maid before his eyes ;- - 
' See, night is gathering far and wide, 
There's danger on the Jungfrau's side ; 
Rest here with me till morning rise." 

' I cannot stay ; my cottage ray 

Doth in the valley waiting burn ; 



36 BALLADS. 

My bride would watch till break of day, 
And tremble for the treacherous way 

O'er which she knows I must return." 

Again, when day had parted quite, 

Before him the same maiden stood ; — 
"Oh, rest thee in my arms to-night; 

Alone I dwell on the Jungfrau height, 
And wearied am with solitude. 

The steep descent would but beguile, 
The precipice is slippery still ; 

Thy bride may wait yet for awhile ; 

Here till the ruddy day-beams smile, 
Forget thy weariness and chill." 

Her arms of snow are round him cast ; 

He sinks to sleep upon her breast ; 
Loud roars the rising Alpine blast, 
The night is cold, the snow falls fast, 

But nevermore they break his rest. 



BALLADS. 



37 



THE MAID OF THE MORASS. 

As night on the deep morasses sank, 

And the huntsman homeward late returned, 

He saw a maid sit on the bank, 

A rush-light fast beside her burned. 

' Tell me, O lovely maid, I pray, 

Is there a kindly cottage nigh ? 
For long ago I lost my way, 

When the sun set red in the western sky." 

She raised to him her soft blue eye, 

And pushed from her brow the golden hair : 
" A cottage shelter is hard by, 

And safely will I guide thee there." 



38 BALLADS. 

In her snow-white hand she lifts her lamp, 
And he follows her through the deep morass ; 

On the dark rank grass the dews are damp, 
And Mack fogs hang o'er the dangerous pass. 

" O maiden, pray, is the cottage nigh ? 

For two long hours we've wandered here.' 1 ' 
She turns to him her soft blue eye — 
" The cottage hearth-fire blazes near." 

And on through the deep morass they toil, 
And dark reeds wave a deadly shade, 

And waters splash on the yielding soil, 

And damp with dews the night-breeze played. 

" The soil is soft, the airs are damp, 

Lose not, fair maid, the way to-night ; " 
But onward she points with her fitful lamp— 
" O the cottage almost is in sight/' 

But soon no more he heeds the way, 
Enamored of the witching maid ; 

He follows her through the vapors gray, 
And through the rank grass' deadly shade. 



BALLADS. 39 

And on through deep dense fogs they roam, 
And broad black lakes around them lie ; 

Forgets he friends, and hearth, and home, 
To follow the maid with the soft blue eye. 

So, huntsmen ! who at twilight pass 

Late by the deep morass, and see 
A maid sit in the dark rank grass, 

With a rush-light burning fitfully ; 

Heed not her words, nor look in her eyes— 
For they whom she guides through the foggy 
pass, 

Forget soon friends, and home, and ties, 
For the witching maid of the morass. 



40 BALLADS. 



TAWASENTHA LAKE. 



O'ir] irep (pvXXwu yeuerj, to'lt) Se koX a.v'Bpwv. 

$>\>XXa ra /teV t aue/xos x«M»5is X e ' ei 5 «A.\a Se 0' uArj 

T77Ae0o'w(ra (/>ye/, eapos 8' iniy'Lyi/erai S>pr] ' 

"Cls avdpcov yeverj, r] (xku cpvei, T) 8' anoXriyei. 



Wearily I wake and listen, 
Wearily the moonbeams glisten 

On the thousand roofs and towers ; 
Shadows black and sharp move slowly 
O'er the pavements, through the holy 

Silence of the midnight hours. 

Past the portals of the wealthy 
Creeps some footstep slow and stealthy- 
And the great clock's eye of fire 



BALLADS. 41 



Through the sleeping city's mazes 
Like a spirit witness gazes 
From its solitary spire. 

But my eyes are ever turning 

To the opening door, are yearning 

Ever towards the opening door ; 
'Tis the stranger enters ever, 
Ah ! the feet I long for, never, 

Never cross my threshold more. 

On my brow a soft touch lingers, 
'Tis the gentle stranger's fingers, 

Not the hands I clasped of yore ; 
'Tis the stranger looks upon me, 
With the self-same eyes that won me 

In the days that are no more. 

A sweet vision bends above me— 
Pray thee, leave me then or love me, 

For my heart is sick with woe ; 
Dreaming of the loved and cherished, 
Dreaming of the lost and perished, 

Dead and buried, long ago. 
4* 



42 BALLADS. 

But the vision fair and saintly 

Fades ; a pale gray streak creeps faintly 

On the blank wall and the door ; 
And I think of cold gray morning 
O'er far Tawasentha dawning, 

Dawning on the pebbly shore. 

Thin white mists roll up the valley, 
O'er the great elms' tangled alley 

Sounding with the gushing spring ; 
O'er the mimic isles and billows — 
The mossed seat beneath the willows, 

Where we heard the robin sing. 

There in dreamy noontide, over 
Knee-deep grass and scented clover, 

"Wavy shadows come and pass ; 
There the laden bee rejoices, 
And the merry children's voices 

Gathering blue-bells in the grass. 

Oft when eastward the long shadows 

Of the poplars streaked the meadows, 

Have I crossed the little bridge ; 



BALLADS. 43 

Through the forest-walk with beeches 
Musical and dark, that reaches 
Winding to the northern ridge. 

Far — a dark line, lay the river — 
Broad and ripening grain-fields quiver, 

As the light breeze wanders through ; 
And the hills beyond, extended, 
Blue and bluer, until blended 

With the calm, eternal blue. 

Sweetly chimes the distant vesper. 
Sweetly rises love's own Hesper 

O'er the homestead on the brink — 
While at times from out the thicket 
The soft carols of the cricket 

On the warm air rise and sink. 

Ah ! even like that scene elysian 
All the future's golden vision 

Spread before my dreaming eyes ; 
Sweet the home of love and duty — 
Fair the far-off hills of beauty 

Towering, blending with the skies. 



44 BALLADS. 

Hark ! where dust with dust is lying, 
Wakes a dreary whisper, sighing : 

Vain the fond heart's hope and scheme ; 
All the light its promise lendeth, 
When the night of death descendeth, 

All — is but an idle dream. 

Hark ! from yon unseen dominions, 
'Tis the sweep of seraph pinions, 

'Tis the word of surety — 
All the bliss this life but dreameth, 
When the eternal morning beameth 

Will be made reality. 



BALLADS. 45 



THE MARINER. 



When day along the ^Egean deep 

His parting glory flung, 
A maid on Samos' sunny steep 

"Wove sedgy wreaths and sung : 

u Swiftly roll, O blue, blue sea; 

Sweetly smile, blue skies above ; 
Safe, ye breezes, back to me 

"Waft the bark that bears my love. 

A Long ago our hearts were plighted, 
Then I trusted him to thee, 
Soon again to be united. 

Swiftly roll, O blue, blue sea! " 



46 BALLADS. 

Sudden from the rock she gazed, 
Sees she 'neath the deep blue wave 

A pale face to hers upraised — 
Pale and solemn as the grave. 

Sea-green were those floating tresses, 
Decked with sea-flower and with shell, 

A soft voice her ear addresses — 
But she knows that voice too well : 

" Cease, my love, and weep no more 
Vain for me thy prayers arise, 
Far on Suli's rocky shore, 

Wrecked, my shattered vessel lies. 

" Now I dwell in coral chamber, 

Fairest nymphs around me throng, 
Wreathe my locks with shells and amber, 



Yet are their caresses cold, 
And I swam the wide blue sea 

Once more my Samos to behold, 
Once more to speak a word with thee.' 1 



BALLADS. 47 

No more his tale she hears him tell, 

Slides she from the steep, 
In coral cell with her love to dwell, 

Far in the blue, blue deep. 



48 BALLADS. 



THE WANDERER. 



League on league steadily 

Cleaving the moonlit sea, 
Northward, away, swift the stout vessel's flight : 

On her deck cannon gleamed, 

Flags and torn ensigns streamed, 
Spoils she had won in the sturdy sea-fight. 

Loud the carouse and laugh, 

Red is the wine they quaff, 
As that day's heroes recount on her deck, 

How with the foeman's mast 

Grappled she fierce and fast, 
How her tough beams quivered over the wreck. 



BALLADS. 49 

Bending above the prow, 

Lone, and unlistening now, 
He whose voice ruled in the thunderous fray, 

Hears not his vaunted name, 

Heeds not the deathless fame 
"Won where the cannon's breath blackened the 
day. 

The sea below — the stars above — 

The plash before the prow — 
'Tis to the music-touch of love 

His spirit vibrates now ; 

He sees the face of his fair young bride, 
His home by the northern sea ; 

The parting that was— the joy, the pride, 
The meeting that is to be. 

League on league steadily, 

Hour by hour peacefully, 
Westward the moon and one star with her sails ; 

Far through the northern air, 

Pale grows the Greater Bear, 
Pale grows the Lesser — the polar star pales. 



50 BALLADS. 

Still with the rushing wave 

Mingles the martial stave, 
Loud blows the bugle blast forth on the night — 

Still bending o'er the prow, 

Lone and unlistening now, 
He whose eye calmly beamed o'er the sea-fight. 

He sees the face of his fair young bride, 
His home by the northern sea, 

The parting that was— the joy, the pride, 
The meeting that is to be. 

Hark ! 'twas the seaman's cry — 

Ho ! land ho ! cheerily — 
And colder breezes ruffle the sea, 

From the ice-fields rushing forth ; 
Through the morning twilight, far to lee, 

The mist-robed giant cliffs stand out — 

Like northern gods in council rout, 

When Asgard echoes with the shout ; 
They look o'er the foam and froth ; 

Merrily ho ! cheer merrily ! 
Tis the snow-land of the north. 



BALLADS. 51 

Merrily, madly the white caps dance, 

Like a reed does the staunch mast bow, 
Swift as an eagle's pinions glance 

Kound swoops the gallant prow, 
By the light-house — by the sunken ledge — 

By the cliffs and the sleeping town — 
The cheers are given and drained is the pledge, 
And manned are the boats to the water's edge, 

As deep drops the anchor down. 

The reedless pools below, 

And the moorlands frozen lie ; 

From the pines black 'gainst the sky 
Comes the " caw-caw " of the crow. 

The sun sets red, and pours 

A flood of glory broad and brief 
On the line of breakers on the reef, 

The breakers on the shore. 

It slants up the snow-deep land, 

And gleams like a star to the tall church vane, 
And burns like fire on the cottage pane 

That looks o'er the lonely strand. 



52 BALLADS. 

The wanderer stands in his silent hall- 
No face of welcome does he meet, 
He only hears his footstep fall, 

And he hears his own heart beat ; 
And answering to the deep sea's tone 
That comes disconsolate and lone, 

The old clock ticking from the wall- 
Warning, as it warned of yore, 
All who step the threshold o'er 
And hear it heedlessly — 
Time is — time is no more — 
Time is eternity ! 



The curtained room is hushed and chill ; there lies 

What will not move or speak — 
Where is the welcome to illume those eyes ? 

The blush to warm that cheek ? 



Where of this soul bereaved the earthly all- 

Its hope and joy of yore ? 
O dust and ashes ! 'neath the funeral pall, 

In the dread nevermore ! 



BALLADS. 53 

Slow the northern constellations wheel 

Round the polar star, 
Lurid dance the northern fires and reel 

O'er the waste afar. 



On the white shroud glares the taper white- 
Glares the white face o'er — 

One last night beside her, one long night, 
And then — nevermore ! 



To and fro 
In the church-tower swings the sullen bell, 

Wearily the bearers go, 

"With a weary breath they pass, and slow, 
To the hollow and doleful knell. 



Out into the cold crisp air — 
Out from the walls her smile has blessed, 
Over the threshold her feet have pressed, 

A cold still thing they bear. 



54 BALLADS. 

A pale blue wintry sky ; 
An icy glare round the church-yard stone, 
Down into the grave a dead leaf flits, 
A little snowbird shivering sits 
By the church-yard gate alone ; 

The long procession halting there — 
O loved and loving, more than friend, 
loving heart-friend, bride and wife ! 
Is this the end ? 
Calm, solemn floats upon the air, 
" I am the Resurrection and the Life." 

A sinking coffin— a long dull sound 
Of a voice's monotonous tone — 

A rattling rope — a fall of ground ; 

Slowly is heaped the little mound ; 

The dead and the living are left alone. 

Twilight sinks on the roaring beach, 
Longer the lengthening shadows reach, 
Sea-fogs rise and sweep like ghosts 
From the restless sea o'er the long bleak coasts 
The owl from the forest bare and high 
Prolongs her melancholy cry, 



BALLADS. 55 

And Sirius loots from the eastern hill 
On the little church-yard white and still, 
All sheeted in its snow-shroud save 
That one dark spot — the new-made grave. 



In joy — in gloom have rolled away 
The years since that cold burial day ; 
With summer blossoms teems the dell, 

And 'neath the west wind's quickening powers 
The wastes of water heave and swell, 

And bloom forth into snow-white flowers ; 
And o'er the surge 
A spirit voice, low, sweet, intones a dirge. 



The cricket hums his drowsy tune, 

Through thick boughs peers the cold wan moon 

On the stained and fallen headstone ; 
Athwart the rank grass drearily 
The northern ocean wearily 

Sends a deep thunder moan. 



56 BALLADS. 

A story 'tis of days long gone — 

That beauteous bride, that marriage morn, 

That cottage by the sea, 
Where fancy in the hearth-fire blaze 
Wrought many a shape for coming days, 

All — save what was to be. 



That hallowed place where thou didst kneel 
To give in love, for woe or weal, 

Thy gentle heart and hand ; 
There strangers kneel and strangers pray, 
And one, alone, far — far away, 

Is in a stranger's land. 



In glittering robes he stands, and to 
The gorgeous altar's golden glow 

He lifts the consecrated cup ; 
Amid the fume of censer fires — 
The blaze of lights — the chanting choirs 

An image from his heart floats up. 



BALLADS. 57 



It whispers softly — nought can change 
The soul, nor lessen nor estrange 

Love on that blissful shore, 
"Where in a blest eternity, 
The loving unto death, shall be 

The loving evermore. 



58 BALLADS. 



JUNE EVENING. 



'Ear i 8' '6 it 7] vvv iar i. 



Dark and broad swelled the river's breast, 
The full moon hung o'er the eastern hill, 
"While the uplands and the downs were still 

On fire with the red and burning west. 



From the town below rose loud and sweet 

The vesper chime, a voice of love, 

While the barracks that crowned the hill above 
"Were loud with the fife, and the drum's quick 
beat. 



BALLADS. 59 

But to my soul from the far-off past 
Ever a voice read soft and low, 

Of the Argive host, and the Thracian blast, 
And the maid that perished long ago. 

And in my ears — an echo afar— 
Ever an old Greek chorus rung, 
Ever the song of fate it sung — 
"As things are, even so they are." 

Bright and brighter the moon looked down 
Till molten gold glowed the river's flood, 
The red fire died in the western wood, 

And lights gleamed up from the silent town. 

And far away stretched dim and dark, 

The uplands and downs 'neath the misty sky ; 
And nought was heard save the bull-frog's cry, 

Or the distant watch-dog's ceaseless bark. 

The visions of the far-off past, 

They paled — they faded into gloom, 

That voice grew faint, and died at last, 
Even to the silence of the tomb. 



60 BALLADS. 

Yet in my ears — an echo afar — 
Ever the old Greek chorus rung, 
Ever the song of fate it sung, 
"As things are, even so they are." 



BALLADS. 61 



DIRGE OF ADONIS. 



'A Se rd\aiva 
Z«o>, ku\ debs i/J-jJ.)) kcu oil dvua/xai ere Siwtceiv. 

BlON. 

Immortal in thy loveliness and youth 

Thou art — my lover and my friend ; 

And thy love's oath — "True even unto the end," 
The end hath sealed its truth. 
I shall not day by day 
Behold tby beauty waste away — 

The bright locks whitening o'er the wrinkled 
brow — 
Nor old age steal at length 
The spirit's pride and strength, 



62 BAU.ADS. 

Nor the warm heart grow cold 
And wither in the fold 
Of mine — aye changeless as thyself art now. 

Ah — woe is me ! 

Mine immortality 
Hath sundered us — I may not follow thee. 



Thine eyes 1 last look in mine 
Was all joy's fulness, and the press 

Of thy caress — 
Thy lips' last touch all fire and tenderness — 

Mingling a goddess' soul with thine; — 
Then parted — fading from each other's sight 

Into the brightness of the morrow's promise, 
As fades some heavenly vision from us 
Into the splendor of the heavenly light. 
Ah ! fore well hour ! 
Ah ! had some power 
Prophetic warned it was the fatal hour! 
Ah — woe is me ! 
Mine immortality 
Hath sundered us — I may not follow thee. 



BALLADS. 63 

The summer day went by — 
I saw thee lie 
Before my feet — cold, beauteous marble form. 
I spoke not — wept not — but the warm 
Life currents in their fount grew still and 

frore. 
A fixed forevermore unchanging grace 
"Was on that tranquil face, 
And by that look of loveliness I knew 
My soul's intense, deep love and reverence grew 
Fixed — changeless evermore. 

And through the gloom, 
The cloud- wrapt tomb, 
And through infinity — 
And through eternity — 
I seek thee, yearning, longing wearily — 
And still I find thee not, and still I yearn — 
All ! for one hour's return ! 
Ah — woe is me ! 
Mine immortality 
Hath sundered us — I may not follow thee. 



64 BALLADS. 

O happy mortals ! when you weep above 
Some cherished grave, 
Be comforted — your human love 
At least can die with what it could not save. 
But me ! 
Ah — woe is me ! 
Mine immortality 
Hath sundered us — I may not follow thee. 

Mine own — all mine ! 
The costliest shrine 
Where kneeling crowds burn incense to my name, 

And my dread power proclaim, 
Less sacred is to me than this poor spot 
Where all /worshipped — is? — ah, no! — is not. 
Ah — woe is me ! 
Mine immortality. 
Hath sundered us — I may not follow thee. 

No longer can earth give 
To me a hope or bliss ; 
In thy dim shadowy world with thee I live, 

And see like far-off things the events of this. 



BALLADS. 65 



When summer morning floods 
With rose hues the cleft ridges and dense woods, 

When dews are glittering on the grass, 
And with fleet step the huntress Oreads pass, 

And through the dells is borne 

The music of the horn, 
Then do I wander lonely and forlorn — 
O'er the lone mountains like a dream I flit. 

When shadows shroud the brake, 
And thousand birds their glad night-carols sing, 

And from the low deep-hidden lake 
Comes up the plashing of the swan's white wing, 

I fold my hands and sit 
Lonely and desolate where thou dost lie — 
Lonely and longing for the power to die — 

I sit and dream what may not be. 
Ah — woe is me ! 
Mine immortality 

Hath sundered us — I may not follow thee. 



BALLADS. 



BAGATELLE. 



1st Voice. 

Meeeily steer ! while the ocean waves 
Are bright with the morning glow — 

Who cares for the rocks and the coral caves 
And the lurking sands below ! 

2d Voice. 

Yet deep where the coral bowers are reared, 
Are couches of sea-weed pale — 

Where many a seaman that merrily steered, 
Sleeps on through calm and gale. 



BALLADS. 



1st Voice. 



67 



Merrily steer ! while blue is the sky, 
Ho — ho ! for the foamy crest ! 

Who thinks of the tempest's lightning eye 
In its lair afar, at rest ! 

2d Voice. 

Yet the tempest marks from his sullen lair 
His prey on the sounding sea — 

Merrily steer, while the skies are fair, 
Too soon they may darkened be. 



68 BALLADS. 



THE VIKING. 

The southern sunbeam colder grew 
As it gleamed on the narrow floor, 

The black stones wet with prison dew — 
His death-wounds red with gore. 

His chains grow heavy where they lie, 
His heart beats faint with loss, 

And a film steals o'er his cold proud eye 
As the friar uplifts the cross. 

Without the moat, through the palm grove tall, 

Float the light gale's melodies ; 
Feebly his wan hand beats the wall — 



BALLADS. 69 

Not the hooded friar does he hear or heed — 

Nor the whispered prayer,- nor the dropping 
head; 
But he hears the far-off waterfall 
Through the Norland's mountain gorges call — 

And the rush of the Norland breeze ; 
Death's shadows fold him like a pall, 

And his dreams are memories. 



Through the dew-drenched forest of the North 

Slants down the day's excess, 
On the woodwalk and the streamlet's froth 

Deep in the wilderness — 
The breath of blossoms sweet breathes forth 

To the balmy air's caress. 

• 

I feel, my love, thy presence near — 

Thy soft heart beating warm, 
Thy voice, my love, rings in my ear 

The music of its charm, 
The touch of thy soft white hand is here, 

The cling of thy soft white arm. 



70 BALLADS. 



"Without the moat they come and go — 
The palm grove's fairy chime. 

He hears not the kneeling friar speak low 
The words of a hope sublime ; 

But the wan hand on the wall beats time 

To the harp-string's prelude ere the flow 
Of the saga's runic rhyme. 



Loud is the wassail bout — 

The night-hours wax toward morn, 
Mead froths like a foamy cataract out 
From flagon and drinking horn. 
Down from the walls in the torchlight glance 
Reindeer antlers, and hauberk and lance 
In many a battle borne ; 
Skalds scream heroic runes 
Fiercely to the northern tunes ; 
Harpers old chant staves 
Of heroes from the Norsemen sprung, 
Who blood-red flags to the storm-blast flung— 
Then slept in blood-red graves. 



BALLADS. VI 

Silence falls on voice and string, 
An envoy from the Norsemen's king 

Stands in the midst, my name 
He shouts — "Art thou not he who swore 
Long since by Odin and by Thor 

To do a deed of fame — 
To sail, and never, never more 
Look on thine own, thy country's shore, 
Till thou hadst hunted from the sea 
The foe whose deeds of bravery 

Have wrought thy country's shame ? " 



My merry crew all — come throng to me — 
We swear once more by Odin's head, 
An oath in Asgard registered — 

This night we put to sea. 



"Without the moat, through the palm grove tall, 
The southern breeze makes moan, 

Fainter the lessening sunbeams crawl 
Up the cold black prison stone, 



72 BALLADS. 

Still feebly the wan hand beats the wall- 
He hears not the friar's low accents fall, 
But the roar of the surf on the sand beach poured, 
The thunder of the far fiord, 
And the ocean's monotone. 



O'er the dark blue wave away — away — 
League on league, and day on day, 
And month on month, afar and nigh 
A barren sea, a barren sky, 

Till the salt-sea foam we loathe ; 
Now with the full sail merrily, 
Now with the slow oar wearily ; 
"We had sworn a direful oath. 



Our midnight lamps of seal oil burn, 
The hurricane fierce rushes down on our stern, 
We scud before it away — away — 
In morning's gray 
Athwart our bow 
Looms up the black hull of the foe. 
We bear down on her, lock the mast, 



BALLADS. 73 

The torn spars shiver — 

The strong keels quiver — 

We grapple fast. 
Then cutlasses flashed and blood leapt forth — 
The shock of bucklers, and the hail 
Of thick strokes rattling on the mail — 
The slippery deck was heaped with dead ; 
No groan came from the men of the North 
As their souls to Walhalla sped. 

The foe give way — 
No cry for quarter — the last we slay — 

The long swell lifts 

The wreck that drifts 
Lumbered with corses white and red. 



Without the moat still through the palm 

The gales sing melodies ; 
He hears not the friar's low-murmured psalm, 
But his hand beats time to the plashing calm 

Of the prow through the midnight seas. 
Hark ! 'tis the helmsman's cry — 
Afar to leeward we espy 



74 HALL ADS. 

The beacon light 
That cleaves the night. 
From the headlands where the hoarse surf broke, 
Tall red flames streaked the shifting waves, 
And fitful gleamed in the spray-washed caves, 
And overspread the Norland sky 
With wreaths of gusty smoke. 



The hand that grasps the wall grows numb, 
O'er the swimming eyes does a blackness come, 
The world in its funeral pall lies dumb. 

On lurid snow-drift and on lurid main 

The northern fires burn red ; 
Why lead me to this snow-deep, frozen plain, 

Where sleep the Norland's dead ? 

A little mound, a little cross hard by 
To mark the slumberer's head — 

O ! all that loved me 'neath the unpitying sky ! 
My own, my darling dead ! 



BALLADS. 75 

O never more ! O never more ! 
By Odin and by Frey and Thor, 
\Vill I behold my country's shore. 

Up — up — my merry crew — throng to me, 

Ours be a life of victory ! 
Come swear Avith me once more, once more 
By Odin and by Frey and Thor, 

This night we put to sen. 



.The hand drops lifeless from the wall — 

The chains clank on the stone — 
May Christ have pity on ns all — 
The friar has crossed himself with a groan, 
And shudders and prays with a trembling tone — 
Miserere Domine ! 



76 BALLADS. 



THE EOSE WREATHS. 

In a balmy vale of Paradise 

With flowers and sunbeams bright, 

Two cherubs sat, and wove two wreaths 
Of roses, red and white. 

"For whom those wreaths of roses? " 

A spirit passing said— 
" Your locks are crowned already 

With roses, white and red.' 1 

il Last night, with a brother cherub 
We twain to earth went down, 
And passed by a dingy alley 
In a drear and dusky town ; 



BALLADS. 77 

" There lay a suffering beggar boy, 
His couch the cold hard earth, 
No food upon his fevered lip, 
No fire upon his hearth, 

"And yet he smiled as we went by 
So patient in his woe, 
"We wept for pity, nor could bear 
To leave him there below. 

" And we prayed to our Creator 
In His mercy and His love, 
To take him from that dismal home 
To dwell with us above. 

" Our loved Creator promised us 
Before the midnight drear 
Again should gather over him, 
He should be with us here. 

" One brother cherub waits below 
To soothe him as he may, 
Through the hunger and the weariness 
Of this long suffering day ; 



78 BALLADS. 

" The wreaths are almost finished, 
For night will soon he down 
On the dark and dismal alley 
Of that drear and dusky town." 

Night came down on the city 

With its thousand forms of dread, 

And ere the midnight peal rung out 
The beggar boy was dead : 

In the balmy vale of Paradise 
Four cherubs sat that night, 

Intoning hymns to God — and crowned 
"With roses, red and white. 



HISTORICAL BALLADS. 



80 BALLADS. 



Gustavus Adolphus, of Sweden, was one of the most 
beautiful characters in history. Schiller says : The 
questionable fame of a conqueror never tempted him to 
unjust wars, but he never shrank from a just one. He 
was the greatest general of the age, and the bravest sol- 
dier in his army. His personal character was irreproach- 
able, and he strove to make his army the same. To sum 
up all, he was a man and a Christian, a king and a hero. 

The victory of Lutzen was claimed by both Swedes and 
Austrians ; but Wallenstein, who led the latter, showed 
his sense of defeat by an immediate retreat. 

The guilt of Francis of Lauenberg has never been 
proved, but his career excites strong suspicion. In early 
youth he was at the Swedish court, and, for some impro- 
priety, received reproof which he never forgave. He 
afterwards entered the Imperial army ; without any ap- 
parent reason, he left it, and attached himself to the 
Swedes, and immediately on the death of Gustavus re- 
turned again to his old master, Wallenstein. 



BALLADS. 81 



LUTZEN. 

Alas, alas for Lutzen! the bloody field of death, 
Where in our good old cause was hushed full 

many a noble breath ! 
Ours was the shout of victory, the weeping and 

dismay— 
For our Gustavus' sacred life was offered up that 

day. 



How sullen rose the misty morn along the 

Swedish train, 

And hid from sight the long array of Austria and 

Spain, 
4* 



82 BALLADS. 

The gallant counts of Italy, who left their south- 
ern home 

To side with Ferdinand and fight in the great 
cause of Rome ; 

And bands of plundering Poles and Croats, who 
throng Avithout rebuke, 

Like vultures, to the bloody feast spread out by 
Friedland's Duke. 

O German land ! canst thou pronounce without a 
curse that name, 

The tyrant of the thirty years that wrought thy 
AA-oe and shame? 

Think of the blazing villages, the trampled corn 
and vines, 

The cities sacked, the peasants slain, the mur- 
dered Palatines ! 

But hark! a shout! see through the mist the 
royal banners wave, 

See riding through the ranks the king, the merci- 
ful and brave, 

So bold and wise in battle, so gentle when 'tis o'er, 

And humbling still his kingly head the King of 
kings before : 



BALLADS. 83 

He smiles upon the German host, his sillies true 

and tried, 
Then turns upon his Swedes a look of softness 

and of pride — 
" Mine own good Swedes! 'twas not for gain or 

glory in the strife 
We left behind us hearth and home and child 

and sire and wife, 
But 'twas to right the grievous wrong, the fet- 
tered slave unbind, 
For God and for his holy word, for freedom 

and mankind ; 
Now to the God of armies give glory while ye 

may, 
For in his hand He holds alone the issue of this 

day." 

He said — and knelt before his ranks ; and loud the 

shout arose 
With sounds of martial minstrelsy, and ere its 

echoes close, 
The mist rolls slowly from the field, and thunder 

down amain 
The Swedish cavalry and charge across the battle 

plain. 



84 BALLADS. 

"God with us!" and our infantry drive well 

their lances home — 
" Jesu Maria ! " sounds along the imperial lines 

of Rome. 
The imperial lines give way like reeds when 

northern tempests hlow ; 
The trenches captured are and turned against the 

flying foe : 
But Friedland rallies his bold troops, they come 

with wrath and wrack, 
They press us sore, they break our lines, they 

drive the battle back, 
The trenches are recaptured, the labor is undone ; 
A thousand bodies strew the field, yet not an inch 

is won. 

See ! toward the right, what messenger comes 

spurring through they fray 
To where amid the thickest din the king upholds 

the day ? 
There, 'gainst our shock of cavalry the Croatian 

charger rears, 
And press against the flying Poles the Finland 

cuirassiers : 



BALLADS. 85 

" sire ! the infantry is pressed and sorely calls 
for aid, 
And the left wing- can scarcely bear the heavy 
cannonade ! " 
"Enough — now Steinbach's regiment, now Fran- 
cis Albert speed," 
And darts like lightning o'er the plain his fiery- 
footed steed ! 

But to the left they rally, and loud the war-cries 

ring 
"God with us!" — to the rescue— he comes, our 

lord and king ! 
But to that cry exultant, what agony succeeds 
As flies a bullet through the air — " Our lord, 

our sovereign bleeds ! " 
" 'Tis nothing — on and follow me ! " the brave 

Gustavus cried, 
Then spoke in French to Lauenburg, who gal- 
loped by his side — 
" I pray thee, brother, lead my horse from out this 

thick melee, 
For should I fall, it well might fix the fortunes 

of the day; 



86 BALLADS. 

I'm faint and sinking, guide me round unseen 

toward the right, 
And spare my gallant regiments this soul-subdu- 
ing sight." 

Alas! thou Christian hero! thou brave and gentle 
heart ! 

The din of battle closes round — farewell ! depart — 
depart ! 

What couch so meet to give thee rest as that red 
field of strife, 

Where for thy God and for mankind was staked 
thy gallant life ; 

Thou, shrined in every human tongue, in every 
human heart — 

Thou glory to the name of king ! farewell ! de- 
part — depart ! 

Still pressed the battle onward, and covered o'er 
with foam 

Still charged our cavalry along the serried ranks 
of Rome ; 

Until with flanks all blood and froth, and flying bit 
and mane, 

And riderless— -our sovereign's horse came scour- 
ing o'er the plain : 



BALLADS. 87 

From lip to lip, from heart to heart, the awful 

tale is sped, 
" Our good Gustavus is no more ! — our king is 

with the dead ! " 



O, Francis, duke of Lauenberg ! a fearful charge 

they bring — 
Didst thou, in that melee, thyself strike down our 

gracious king ? 
For such a deed, that hell itself with shuddering 

surveyed, 
"What hand and heart so fit as thine, thou thrice a 

renegade ! 



Duke Bernard rides before the lines, his kindling 

eye is wet : 
" Your king lies murdered on the field, his spirit 
leads you yet ! 
Ho ! noble sons of Finland ! ho, men in upland 

bred ! 
Heroes of Leipzic and of Mentz — on ! and avenge 
the dead ! 



88 BALLADS. 

Shall Spaniards triumph o'er the dust of your 

anointed lord ? 
Not while one Swedish arm can lift a musket or 

a sword ! " 



Who yonder gallops o'er the field, and forms the 

Austrian line ? 
The iron demon of the fight, the haughty Wallen- 

stein. 
A thousand fall, a thousand balls to his one 

breast are sped, 
Yet safe, alone, he gallops o'er the dying and the 

dead; 
Avenging furies shield that breast, and an 

assassin's knife, 
Not Swedish weapon, is foredoomed to end the 

traitor's life. 



Now through the thundering cannonade the 

trump and shout rose high — 
No thought of flight — our only word, to conquer 

or to die ! 



BALLADS. 89 

And round our king with shock and clash the 

fierce encounters close, 
Till o'er his sacred dust is reared a pyramid of foes. 
But who can tell what deeds were done ? There, 

after feats sublime, 
Fell Austria's bravest champion, the fiery Pap- 

penheim ; 
And hour by hour, and man to man, we fought 

with might and main, 
Till many a gallant regiment lay lifeless on the 

plain. 

So when the trumpet ceased, and the gloomy 
night came on; 

The foes had turned, the fight was o'er, the 
bloody field was won : 

And kneeling down bare-headed, our tears be- 
dewed the sod, 

And sobs and groans were mingled with praises 
to our God ; 

With praises to the Lord of Hosts, the avenger 
of the wrong, 

Who gives not honor to the proud, nor triumph 
to the strong; 
8* 



90 BALLADS. 

The Lord who counselled in his love, and ordered 

in his might, 
That he who led us forth that morn should come 

not hack at night. 

Now Austria — claim the laurels! now order, 

Ferdinand, 
Te Deums in Vienna, and through the Spanish 

land ! 
But ours the dear-bought victory — the glory and 

dismay, 
For which our good Gustavus' life was offered up 

that day ! 



BALLADS. 91 



LAMENT OF ABD-EL-RHAMAN". 



VERSIFIED FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION. 

Abd-el-Rhaman-ben-Hixern, the first Moorish King of 
Spain, 755 A. D., embellished Cordova with many beautiful 
gardens ; in one of these he planted a palm tree, from which 
it is said all the palm trees in Spain have sprung. It is said, 
too, that one day fixing his eyes on this tree, and deeply 
moved with the remembrance of his native land, he poured 
forth these verses. 

stately palm ! across the main 
Thy land and mine lies far from Spain ; 
But thee, the western gales embrace, 

The air is pure, the sunlight gleams, 
No visions of thy native place 

Sweep o'er thy troubled leaves in dreams ; 



92 BALLADS. 

Thou knowest not human change and hate 
Nor tremblest at the storms of fate. 



When fierce Al Abbas' wrath of yore 
Exiled me from my native shore, 

My tears fell fast on many a palm 

That by Euphrates' margin rose — 
The trees still bloom, the waves run calm 
And bear no record of my woes. 
O palm, bloom on ! in foreign lands 
Thou weepest not for our native sands. 



BALLADS. 93 



FRANCIS II. AT GAETA. 

i. 
Or all the realm that owned thy sway 
And called thee monarch yesterday, 
Thou Bourbon King ! beside the sea 
To-day what is there left to thee ? 
One fortress, and the foeman's din 
Without, and pestilence within. 

ii. 
There leave to meaner lives to man 
The wall, and desperate sortie plan ; 
And gloating o'er the gold — the wealth 
Thy hasty flight bore off by stealth, 
Forget the crown that scarcely graced 
Thy brow, ere thence 'twas torn debased. 



94 BALLADS. 



III. 



And they who rent the high command 

And sceptre from thy feeble hand — 

Leave them but freedom and their swords, 

They envy not the miser hoards 

That buy a shelter and a grave 

For thee and thine beyond the wave. 



Where Vistula's far waters glide 
Swift onward to the northern tide, 
The sovereigns three in council meet. 
In Poland's ancient royal seat, 
Thou Bourbon King ! there yet may be 
A hope for tyranny and thee. 

v. 

But no ! the sovereigns of the north 
Lead not their marshalled armies forth 
To snatch a spoil they may not share. 
They make no second Poland where 
Sardinian fleets at anchor ride 
By Reggio's wall and Arno's tide. 



BALLADS. 95 



VI. 



And kings may now with kings alone 

Essay their strength and hold their own ; 

But that tremendous human will 

That makes and shatters crowns, their skill 

Is powerless to control or quell, 

As ocean's sand to curb her swell. 



And fair Sicilia, once the den 
Of Norman and of Saracen, 
By turns upon her hills has seen 
The Spaniard and the Anjouine; 
But never have her annals shown 
A darker shadow than thine own. 

VIII. 

Now on Sicilia's flowery sward 
Merrily are libations poured ; 
And maidens dance in Luna's light- 
O ! gentle are those bosoms white, 
Yet at thy name is scarce forborne 
On those soft lips the curl of scorn. 



96 BALLADS. 



And in the palace once thine own 

A king is seated on a throne ; 

And they that hated thee and thine, 

And laughed at sovereigns' rights divine, 

Bear far his banners in the field 

And make their own bold breasts his shield. 



From north, and east, and south, see close 
Still narrowing round, the belt of foes, 
The mound is raised, and nigh and nigher 
The battery points its mouths of fire, 
And winged before the western breeze 
Sardinia's prows make -white the seas. 

XI. 

And midst them one at anchor lies 
O'er which the Kaiser's eagle flies, 
Thy country's tyrant once accurst, 
He offers thee the last, the worst, 
The shelter of her sable wing- 
To waft thee far, thou crownless king ! 



BALLADS. 97 



Too long that lesson didst thou spurn 
The Bourbons aye were slow to learn ; 
Bent o'er the past's dead written word, 
The present's living voice unheard, 
With plain and earnest meaning fraught 
That other kings more quickly caught. 



The breaking of the feudal chain 
Resounds through Russia's broad domain, 
And Holland half redeems the day 
That gave her shores to regal sway : 
Deemed'st thou the hills of sun and vine 
Were in perpetual bondage thine ? 



Away ! and when the dark blue sea 

Rolls deep between thy land and thee, 

Remember what thou wert and art 

Till sickening sinks, subdued, thy heart, 

And from another's reign serene, 

Too late learn what thou might'st have been. 



98 BALLADS. 



In the caliphate of Omar, the second in succession from 
the Prophet, the Saracens made the most rapid conquests. 
The Emperor Heraclius, fearful of losing Syria, sent Ma- 
han (or Manuel) with the Greek and Roman forces to op- 
pose them. It was a vain opposition. The final battle 
which decided the fate of Syria was fought on the banks 
of the Yermouk; it lasted several days, and ended in the 
total rout of the Christians. Khaled was the leader of 
the Saracen host. 



BALLADS. 



THE BATTLE OF YERMOUK. 
a. d. 636. 

Allah Achbar ! the foes are near, down with the 

Christian host ! 
In vain the Grecian phalanx forms, and Roman 

trumpets hoast. 
On Yermouk's side — on Yermouk's side where 

loud the battle clangs, 
To-day, O true believers, the fate of Syria hangs ! 

See yonder panoplies of gold, the purple-vested 
steed, 

'Tis the imperial Mahan, his haughty heart shall 
bleed. 

On Saracens ! soon their red crests in redder 
blood we'll dye, 

And their rich robes at Omar's feet shall in Me- 
dina lie ! 



100 BALLADS. 

Remember at Emessa how fiercely thundered 

down 
The Christians to the fight, and fled, or fell before 

their town. 
Think of Damascus' roses, her golden river's 

side, 
The plunder of Abyla, and Baalbec's towers of 

pride. 

See Khaled's eagle banner floats, and blaze his 

eagle eyes — 
See Paradise unfolds before ; behind, Jehennam 

lies. 
The Hur-al-Oyun* wait for those that press to-day 

the sod ; 
Down with the dogs of infidels ! there is no God 

but God! 

Soft are Arabia's melting maids and dark their 

houri glance ; 
For Islam's faith they wield to-day the scymitar 

and lance. 

* Houris. 



BALLADS. 101 

For God and for his prophet charge ! shall men 

give way and yield, 
When maids and mothers dare the shock, and 

scour the bloody field ? 

Far to the south do iElia's * walls their sacred 

heads uprear, 
And Christians count their beads and watch by 

Jesu's sepulchre. 
There soon the Koran shall be heard, and there 

the muezzin's cry, 
And from their towers yon yellow flag of Mahomet 

shall fly. 

Allah Achbar! the foes are nigh, their arrows 

hide the sun ; 
How sweet the rest of Paradise when the good 

fight is done ! 
On ! to Jehennam speed their souls, their bodies 

to the sod ! 
Allah Achbar ! the day is ours, there is no God 

but God ! 

* Jerusalem. 



102 JiALLADS. 



The history of no country presents so entirely an aspect 
of romance as the wars in Spain, waged for some cen- 
turies between the Moors and Christians. The most des- 
perate struggles, the most brilliant victories, the most 
disastrous defeats, form one tissue with hair-breadth 
escapes and personal reverses. 

Conspicuous ahioug the last is that of El Zagal, the 
Moorish king of Granada, whose possessions were invaded 
by Ferdinand. T Iis capital, Granada, was being convuls- 
ed, and his power undermined at the time by the factions 
of his nephew, Boabdil el Chico ; and with civil war 
threatening close around, he appears not to have appre- 
ciated the strength of the coming Christian foe, until 
warned by the inspired santon, Hamet Aben Zarrax. 

Afraid to leave his rival behind, and march out to meet 
Ferdinand, who was about to invest the city of Velez 
Malaga, he made a proposition to Boabdil, which was 
declined. Nothing remained, therefore, but to go him- 
self; and his unfortunate return is one instance more 
of the instability of a monarch's popularity. 



BALLADS. 103 



EL ZAGAL. 



In Granada's marble street 
Crowds the holy Hamet greet ; 
'Tis the Moorish king he seeks, 
To the Moorish king he speaks — 
; Thou the Dame of king would'st boast, 
Yet wilt see the kingdom lost. 

1 Lo ! from Cordova the band 
Led by crafty Ferdinand 
Works Granada woe and loss, 
Plants the banner of the cross 
On Granada's strongholds, won 
For Castile and Aragon. 



104 BALLADS. 

"Where Bentomiz southward far 
Looks on Velez Malaga, 
Christian knights to battle call — 
Thou within the Alhambra's hall 
Idly sittest, contending still 
With thy kinsman Boabdil." 

Then the aged monarch spake — 
"Crown and throne will I forsake, 
And to Boabdil will yield, 
So he leads us to the field. 
Let him rout the Christian horde, 
And be called Granada's lord." 

"Boabdil! thy rival sends 
And this factious contest ends ; 
To thy rule he deigns to yield ; 
Thee will follow to the field ; 
Thou shalt rout the invading horde 
And be called Granada's lord." 



Bitterly the prince replied — 
Evil now mv life betide, 



BALLADS. 105 

If 'tis placed his grasp within 
Who hath slain my sire and kin — 
Let him keep his crown and throne, 
And go forth to fight alone." 

Trumpets now have spread the alarms ; 
There is buckling on of arms, 
Neigh of steed and cymbal's din, 
And the Moors come gathering in. 
Twice ten thousand men in state 
Set forth from Granada's gate. 

And the royal town doth ring 
With the praises of the king ; 
Brave El Zagal's deeds they vaunt — 
Cowardly Boabdil they taunt ; 
One goes forth the foe to find — 
One, a dastard, lnrks behind. 



From Granada's topmost tower 
Sentries look forth hour by hour: 



106 BALLADS. 

Alfaquis and aged men 
O'er the Vega strain their ken, 
For the tidings from afar, 
From fair Velez Malaga. 

Scattered o'er the Vega ride 
Messengers at eventide ; 
"White with foam, with blood-drops red, 
In the gate the steeds fall dead — 
"Woe — woe to Granada ! woe 
For El Zagal's overthrow ! " 

" In the night a tumult rose — 
Each glen bristling was with foes ; 
Each crag was a bale-fire's glare ; 
In the morning twilight, Avhere 
Was El Zagal and his host ? 
Vanished like a midnight ghost." 

Then a Moor uprose and said — 
" Curses on El Zagal's head, 
Who hath led to death and shame 
Bravest Moslem — men of fame ! 



BALLADS. 107 

From the throne the traitor fling ! 
Long live Boabdil our king! " 

Boabdil ! the people's call 
Greets thee in the Albaycin's hall, 
Thee our rightful lord we own, 
Thine the sceptre and the throne. 
Who El Zagal dares extol 
In the dust his head shall roll." 

All the Aihambra blazed with light, 
For a king was crowned that night. 
Moorish nobles — Alfaquis 
Bring in pomp the city's keys ; 
But without the gateway high 
Four pale headless corses lie. 

And that night, by Xenil's flow 
A tired horseman journeyed slow. 
He — a king but yesterday 
Leading armies to the fray, 
Now with but a scanty train 
Wanders o'er the hills of Spain. 



108 BALLADS. 



The battle of Kadesia took place in the 15th year of 
the Hegira, a. d. 635, and "■ is as famous," says Irving 
" among the Arabs, as that of Arbela among the Greeks." 
It was one of the many, in which, according to the Mos- 
lem creed, the end justified the means, and in which the 
youthful monarch of Persia, Yezdigird, was called on to 
embrace Mohammedanism, or prepare for battle. He chose 
the latter. 

Saad, who succeeded Mosenna in command, being una- 
ble, from sickness, to lead his Moslem host in person, 
overlooked the field from his tent, where he sat with his 
beautiful wife, the widow of Mosenna. Grieved at seeing 
so many gallant warriors fall, the ejaculation escaped her, 
"Alas! Mosenna Ibn Haris, where art thou?" Saad, 
stung by what he considered a reproach, struck her on 
the face with his dagger. 



BALLADS. 109 



MOSENNA. 



Flushed with proud advantage won, 
Rust am leads his Persians on, 
And the Moslems faint and yield 
On Kadesia's bloody field. 

Where art thou, Mosenna ! 



Twice the daylight set and rose 
On the dead or grappling foes, 
Allah Achbar is the cry — 
Yet the faithful fall or fly, 

Where art thou, Mosenna ! 



110 BALLADS. 

Who forgets the bold retreat 
O'er Euphrates' gory sheet — 
When for Islam's sacred trust 
Seven brave champions bit the dust? 
Where art thou, Mosenna! 

Then on Hirah's field the rout 
Rallied at Mosenna's shout, 
Loud the cries of " Allah " swell, 
By thy hand bold Mahran fell — 

Where art thou, Mosenna I 

Now, a panic fills the plain 
Strewn with bravest Moslems slain; 
See thy bride in shame and woe 
Outraged by a cruel blow — 

Where art thou, Mosenna ! 

Islam's banner wavers yet, 
And the ranks of Mahomet 
Scorned by infidels and cursed, 
ToAvards the desert are dispersed — 
Where art thou, Mosenna ! 



BALLADS. Ill 

But they rally ! Allah dart 
Courage iu each sinking heart, 
To the feet of Yezdigird 
Chase his vain luxurious herd ! 

Where art thou, Mosenna ! 

Then shall every Persian hall 
Echo to the Muezzin's call, 
To Medina there shall toil 
Caravans with Khosru's spoil. 

Where art thou, Mosenna ! 

And his splendor shall be shorn, 
And his empire shall be torn, 
Even as he the letter tore 
That the Prophet's envoy bore- 
Where art thou, Mosenna ! 

Does the Hur-al-Oyun's light 
Charm, in Paradise, thy sight ? 
Hast thou there nor care nor tear 
For great Allah's armies here ? 

Where art thou, Mosenna ! 



112 BALLADS. 



The crime of Hakem seems to have been reliance on 
the word of Kaleb, a rebel in arms against the Moorish 
king, Al-Moundhir. Kaleb had taken possession of To- 
ledo, and Hakem was sent by the king with an army to 
dispossess him. On their approach, Kaleb entered into 
negotiations, and offered to retire, provided he was fur- 
nished with mules and other means of transportation. 
Hakem was deceived by the snare, saw Kaleb depart, 
and himself returned to Cordova, to report his bloodless 
victory. No sooner, however, was Kaleb left to himself, 
than he repossessed himself of the city. The event oc- 
curred in the latter part of the ninth century. 



BALLADS. H3 



HAKEM. 



There is spurring o'er the mountains, there is 

riding far and fast, 
And the echo of the horse-hoofs to Cordova has 

passed, 
There are letters for Al-Moundhir, and his brow 

with anger lowers, 
For Kaleb and his rebel host have taken Toledo's 

towers. 



Fiercely the Moorish monarch cried--" Whose 

folly has wrought this ? 
Go drag the graybeard Hakem here, his headlong 

rashness 'tis. 



114 BALLADS. 

I warned him that the rebels already false had 

played, 
Yet scorned he my advices, and a treaty with them 

made." 



" Hakem ! the sovereign summons thee, with grief 

and anguish sore, 
For of fair Toledo captured the blame lies at thy 

door ; 
In vain thy long white beard will plead, in vain 

thy labors done, 
He longs to see thy hoary head his palace gate 

upon." 



Hakem knew well the monarch's mood, nor dared 

he longer stay ; 
He mounts his steed to fly — and speeds through 

Cordova away, 
But in the gate the courser fell, and threw him 

lifeless down, 
And when he wakened from his trance he met the 

monarch's frown. 



BALLADS. 115 

The king in fury spoke— " Thou well the rebels' 

cause hast served 
By thy imprudence, and the arm of order hast 

unnerved; 
The blood that's spilt fall back upon thy head ! 

and let thy death 
Teach men that law and wisdom wait upon a 

monarch's breath ! " 



" Great king ! I've served thee, as I served thy 
sire for many a day ; 

Twice twenty years of faithful toil have worn my 
life away ; 

If ill or errors have ensued that I could not fore- 
see, 

Still all I've done has been the best I knew for 
Spain and thee." 



Brave Hakem, little reck thy words! a fate 

hangs o'er thy head ; 
Didst thou not boldly dare to weep when Muha- 

med lay dead ? 



116 BALLADS. 

Thy gentle rule do not the Moors love well ? Shall 

monarchs brook 
The people shall on any but themselves with favor 

look? 



The guards have bound thee, and into the outer 

court have ta'en, 
And by the royal will their swords have rent thy 

neck in twain ; 
And all through Cordova is sound of weeping and 

of dread, 
To see fixed on the palace gate the hoary beard 

and head. 



The king stalks silent in his halls, and through 
each street and way 

The Moors come riding gloomily and armed for 
bloody fray ; 

And round the gates the old men meet in terror 
whispering low, 

As hour by hour comes spurring in some messen- 
ger of woe. 



TRANSLATIONS 



TRANSLATIONS. 119 



TO SPRING. 

(from anacreon.) 

See— before the appearing spring 

Bounteous Graces scatter roses, 
Ocean's billow— softening 

To a calm — reposes. 
S ee __the duck is on the stream, 

And the crane is on the wing ; 

Fleecy clouds fly quivering 
From the sun's warm shining beam. 
Now too shines man's patient toil 
Where with produce swells the soil. 
Now puts forth the olive shoot, 

Bacchus' cup is crowned ; 
And o'erborne with ripening fruit 

Leaves and branches sweep the ground, 



120 TRANSLATIONS. 



TO THE ROSE. 

(from anacrbon.) 

Rose ! the Loves' own rose ! 

Mingle with the wine we're quaffing ! 
Rose of beauteous leaves that blows, 
Binding round our temples close 

Drink we, gaily laughing. 
Rose of beauty rare ! 
Rose, spring's tenderest care ! 
Even the gods pronounce thee fair. 
Roses Venus' son entwining 
Round his curling locks and shining 

With the Graces linked, advances. 
Crown me, then, and near thy shrine 
Playing, thou god of wine, 

Where the rich-robed maiden glances, 
In wreathed roses will I shine, 

And adorned, lead up the dances. 



TRANSLATIONS. 121 



FEOM HECUBA. 



{Chorus of Captive Trojan Women.) 
BTBOI-IIE I. 

O, Ilium ! Ilium ! thou no more art called 

The city of the unconquered ! A dense cloud 
Of Greeks enveloped thy devoted wall, 

And with the spear lay waste thy bulwarks 
proud ; 
Thy crown of towers is shorn, the woful stain 
Of ashes has begrimed that pleasant plain 
These hapless feet shall press— O, ne'er again ! 



122 TRANSLATIONS. 



ANTI6TR0PHE I. 



At do ad of night I perished, when upon 

The eyes, sweet slumber, from long feasting, 
falls; 

My lord, the songs and sacrifices done, 

Lay on his couch, his spear hung on the wall ; 

He sees not the strange nautic crowd that meets 

In Ilium's silent and deserted streets. 



STROPHE II. 

I the gold mirror's dazzling circle eyed, 
My tresses in enclasping fillets hound 

For night — and on my downy pillow's side 
Just was I sinking for repose profound. 

When hark ! throughout the city far and wide 
The air was filled with a tumultuous sound — 

A voice through Troy resounded — "Sons of 
Greece ! 

When will ye raze these towers and seek your 
homes in peace?" 



TRANSLATIONS. 



ANTISTEOPHE II. 



123 



In single vesture my dear couch I left 

Even as a Doric maiden to adore 
Great Artemis. Ah hapless I— bereft 

Of safety ! ere my orison was o'er 
I was torn thence, my bridegroom in his gore 
I saw, they dragged me weeping to the shore— 

The vessel lifts its anchor swift, and flies, 

And Ilium's walls fade from my fainting eyes. 



EPODE. 



O be the name forevermore accursed 

Of the Idean, and accursed be 

The Dioscuri's sister ! o'er the sea, 
The salt sea foam, 
Ne'er may she greet again the land that nursed 
Her childhood, nor re-tread her beauteous home. 
Her false, false bridal, wrought out by some hand 

Of vengeful destiny, beyond the deep 
Exiles me from my native land, 

And seals my eyes in unawakening sleep ! 



124 TRANSLATIONS. 



CHORUS FROM HECUBA. 

Gale of the sea, gale of the sea, 

"Wafting the swift barks o'er the surge 
Bounding on from verge to verge 
Of ocean's wave ! 
Whither so swiftly bearest thou me ? 
To what home — ah haplessly — 

Do I go — a purchased slave ? 



To the Doric port, to the Phthian shore, 
Where Apidanus 1 stream, they say, 
Through rich plains winds its beauteous way? 

Whither, away — with the maritime oar? 



TRANSLATIONS. 125 

Or to that isle where the palin first sprung 

And (emblems of the birth divine) 
The laurel's hallowed branch first clung 

Round loved Latona's shrine ? 
There shall I weeping, wear away 
My soul in slavery's woful day, 
There sick at heart amid a throng 
Of Delian nymphs, intone in song 
Immortal Artemis the chaste, 
With bow and golden fillet graced? 
Or in Athenian halls to ply 

The labors of the gorgeous loom, 
And make, on robes of saffron dye, 

The varied flower-wrought broideries bloom^ 
Depicting Pallas onward whirled — 

Her steeds— her beauteous chariot's sweep, 
Or Titans, by Zeus' thunder hurled 
To their eternal sleep ? 



Alas, my children ! and alas, my sires ! 

Alas, my country ! how deplored— how dear ! 
In sable smoke thy glorious day expires, 

Thou desolated by the Argeian spear ! 



126 TR ANSL ATI ON S . 

Far from thy strand 
A captive am I borne o'er ocean's wave, 
And leave thee too, my fatherland, 
Like me — a slave ! 

Farewell! 
Far over ocean's swell, 

beauteous Asia ! Europe's slave, farewell- 

1 leave my bridal chamber for the grave ! 



TRANSLATIONS. 127 



FROM A CHORUS IN ALCESTIS. 



Daughter of Pelias! farewell, farewell! 

The sunless halls of Dis receive thy tread. 

But let the dark-haired monarch of the dead 
And the grim, silent ferryman of hell, 

Who sits intent on rudder and on oar, 

Wafting the spectres to the sable shore, 
Know how beloved, how sweet, how chaste a 

bride 
To-day floats o'er the Acheronian tide. 

Thee shall the servants of the Muses sing, 

The seven-toned lute shall on the mountains 
sound, 
And soft hymns rise when silent sleeps the string 



128 TRANSLATIONS. 

In Sparta, when, the annual circle crowned, 
The season brings the Carnean feast around ; 

And through the livelong night the moonbeams 
rest 

On Athens — the magnificent and blest. 



O that my voice could reach thee on the shores 
Of darkness where the hoarse Cocytus roars ! 
O that my tears could touch thee in the hall 

Of Hades, and recall thy steps above, 
As thou — O unexampled! didst recall 

Thy bridegroom peerless in thy death and love ! 



The mother shrinking from the realms unknown, 
And hoary-headed sire the quest deny, 

She in the pride of youth and joy alone 
Refused not for her best beloved to die. 



TRANSLATIONS. 129 



FROM A CHORUS W ALCESTIS. 



Upbokne far through the Muses 1 land 

And touching many a theme, 

I learn, 'tis but an idle dream 
'Gainst Destiny to stand. 

not the Thracian tablets that of old 

Orpheus deigned engrave, 

Nor the medicinal drugs Apollo gave 
To Esculapius' children — hold 

A charm to save. 

To her dread altars are no offerings sent, 

To them no footstep turns — 
Before her sculptured form no knee is bent, 

The sacrifice she spurns. 

6* 



130 TRANSLATIONS. 



And thee, Admetus ! thee a fate most dread 
Inevitable grasps — yet bear — nor weep, 

Tears will not wake the dead — 

Lo ! in the grave the god-begotten sleep. 

For thee did earth's most beauteous blossom 
bloom, 

How loved in life ! how worshipped in the tomb ! 

Count not that tomb as a cold dead stone 

That covers a cold dead dust ; 
Thither shall come the pilgrim lone 
As to some god's pure shrine, and own 

Her name with prayer and trust. 
And travellers turning from their way 
Will kneel by the hallowed place and say — 
" In olden time she perished for her lord, 
And now on high 
She sits adored — 
Hail ! be propitious, blest Divinity ! " 



TRANSLATIONS. 131 



HARALD THE VALIANT. 



Abound Sicilia's fertile shore 

My brown ship filled with warriors brave, 
In splendid state, with sail and oar 

Skimmed rapidly the wave. 
I thought my sails for fight arrayed 

Would never slacken on the main ; 
And yet— and yet a Russian maid 

Looks on me with disdain. 



With Drontbeim's hosts in youth I fought, 
Unequal battle did we wage, 

Superior odds the foeman brought 
And fearful was the rage. 



132 TRANSLATIONS. 

Young as I was, my trusty blade 

Left their bold monarch mid the slain ; 

And yet — and yet a Russian maid 
Looks on me with disdain. 



One day, twice eight we were on borrd, 

A tempest rose and swelled the sea, 
The waves upon our vessel poured, 

"We cleared it faithfully ; 
Thence brightest hopes around me played 

Alas! that brightest hopes are vain ! 
And yet — and yet a Russian maid 

Looks on me with disdain. 



Eight exercises I perform — 

On horse I boldly scour the field, 
I bravely meet the battle storm, 

And lance and oar can wield ; 
I swim the breakers undismayed, 

And skim on skates the frozen plain, 
And yet — and yet a Russian maid 

Looks on me with disdain. 



TRANSLATIONS. 133 

What maid or widow can deny — 

When southward of the city height, 
As ruddy morning streaked the sky — 

Closed in the ranks of fight, 
I bravely fought ? rich trophies paid 

My prowess gainst the hostile train, 
And yet — and yet a Russian maid 

Looks on me with disdain. 



In Norway's uplands was I born 

"Where well the warriors bend the bow, 
Now trembling landsmen mark at dawn 

My anchored ships below. 
Their keels have many a furrow laid 

In oceans, far from man's domain, 
And yet — and yet a Russian maid 

Looks on me with disdain. 



134 TRANSLATIONS. 



THE FUNERAL SONG OF HACON. 

Gondul— lo ! and Scogul wait, 
Mighty goddesses of fate, 
Sent by Odin's mandate forth 
Mid the sovereigns of the north 
One of Yngvon's race to call 
To the eternal banquet hall. 

They Biorno's brother found 
All unarmed on battle ground ; 
His proud banner shades him o'er, 
Fast the foemen fall before, 
Brandished swords flash in the sun, 
And the conflict is begun. 

Haleyg's dwellers does he call— 
And the island dwellers all ; 



TRANSLATIONS. 135 

Prince- destroyer, see him ride 
With his Norsemen by his side, 
'Neath his helmet grim he smiles 
"Waster of the Danish isles. 

The brave king had on the field 
Thrown his golden casque and shield, 
With the princes — sons of fame — 
Mingling in heroic game, 
"When the battle's thunder-tone 
Called him forth to guard his throne. 

See the king's good weapon pass 
Through the mail and through the brass 
As through mountain streams 'twere sent ; 
Javelins clash, stout shields are rent, 
On the helmet and the brain 
Deadly strokes come down like rain. 

Tyr and Bauga ! gods of war ! 

Lo ! your javelins shivered are. 

Lo ! in Storda's isle they join, 

And the kings break through the line — 



136 TRANSLATIONS. 

Through the fence of shields that stood, 
Staining them with human blood. 

Swords wax hot, red wounds distend, 
O'er men's lives the long shields bend, 
Spears on Storda's reeking shore 
Eed the battle deluge pour ; 
On that promontory high 
Heaps of wounded warriors lie. 

Gory wounds they scorn, they toil 
Wrestling for the battle spoil. 
Fiercely rages Odin's storm, 
Still the blood runs swift and warm, 
Still hot swords their labors ply, 
Still the many heroes die. 

Then the chiefs sate on the field — 
Blunted sword and shattered shield — 
Cloven were their coats of mail 
Where the arrows fell like hail. 
No more dares the host to hope 
Will Walhalla's portals ope. 



TRANSLATIONS. 137 

Gondul on her lance leans near, 
And she speaks these words of cheer : 
" !STow the gods' eternal feast 
They decree shall be increased — 
Hacon and his host I call 
To the eternal banquet hall." 

Those fair nymphs does Hacon hear, 
Seated on their war-steeds near. 
Clothed in helmet and in shield, 
Full of thought they scan the field. 

Hacon speaks — " goddess, say, 
Why thus close the battle day, 
With more glorious fate unblest ? " 
Scogul ansvfers — " Be at rest ; 
By my hand thy foes undone, 
See thy fame and triumph won. 

" Sister — sister — swiftly ride 
Through the gods' green empires wide, 
To all-potent Odin say 
Hacon treads the lonely way." 



138 TRANSLATIONS. 

Thus commands the all-potent — "Speed- 
Brago and Hermode, lead — 
Lead the approaching warrior guest, 
Hail him to the halls of rest." 



Now the king within the hall 
Stands besprent with carnage all, 
Sees the mighty Odin near — 
Odin terrible — severe. 



Brago greets him — " Fear not thou — 

Thine are peace and glory now. 

Here with gods and heroes pour 

Brimming mead forevermore. 

Lo ! within "Walhalla's gate 

Thee thine eight bold brethren wait." 

Hark ! the hero's proud behest — 
" Leave my hauberk on my breast ; 
Coat of mail and helmet fair 
Ever should the warrior wear, 



TRANSLATIONS. 139 

And the good sword of the North 
Ready ever to leap forth." 



Now is seen how well that heart 

Bore in life its noble part. 

The great conclave of the skies 

And the lesser gods uprise, 

The new guest with shouts they greet, 

And prepare an equal seat. 



Blest the monarch's day of birth 
When even gods revere his worth ; 
Even the age that saw his fame 
Shares the memory of his name. 



Through the world, through man's domains, 
The wolf Feuris freed from chains 
Fearful re veilings shall hold, 
Ere a king so good, so bold, 
Treads again the lonely road 
Leading to the gods' abode. 



140 TRANSLATIONS. 

Riches perish ; dust in dust 
Sleep the kindred hearts we trust ; 
Kingdoms wasted meet their doom 
Many nations sit in gloom ; 
With the gods does Hacon dwell, 
Glorious — inaccessible. 



TR ANSL ATI ONS . 141 



NOTE TO HARALD. 

Harald Hardraada, who reigned in Norway in the 
11th century, a poet as well as a king, during a warlike 
expedition which he made to Sicily, the Euxine Sea, and 
Africa, composed a poem which consisted originally of 
sixteen verses. The Russian Maid was Elizabeth, 
daughter of Jarizlaus, king of Holmgard, a princess 
whom he afterward married. 

It was this same Harald who, after the death of Ed- 
ward the Confessor, invaded England, and was killed in a 
battle near York. His poetic genius did not desert him 
at the last, for it is said that just entering into the engage- 
ment he chanted the following verse : 

" On and away — 
Speed to the fray ! 
Nor breast-plate we wear 
In the sword-light glare. 



142 TRANSLATIONS. 

The helmets shine ; 

That armor of mine 

With its rich-wrought device 

In my good ship lies." 

"A rude unpolished verse have I sung," said he, " now 
must I make another and a better one." Then he con- 
tinued : 

" There is death on the plain ; with mighty din 
The Virgin Hillda* bids begin 
The fight, she calls — she urges in 

Where sharp bright weapons crowd. 
She stands 1 neath the hollow-breasted shield, 
She shouts, the shock is on the field, 
Cer the head the glittering sword they wield, 

The clash of steel is loud. 

The above is taken from Sxorro Stukleson (Latin 
translation). 

Six verses of Harald's song are preserved by Bartho- 
lin, who adds a Latin translation. The following is the 
first verse. 



I. 

Sneid fyrir Sikiley vida 
sud varum J»a prudir 
brunn skreid vel til vanar 



'The northern goddess of war. 



TRANSLATIONS. 143 



vengis hiortr und drengiuiu 
vaetti ek midr at motti 
muni enn hannigrenna 
ho laetr gerdr i gordum 
gollhrings vid mer skolla. 

[. 
Circuivit Sicilian! passim navis, turn magniflce fuimus fusca 
meavit propere pro spe nostra, navis sub viris, spero ego, con- 
ventus memor, earn exinde ita cursuram, attamen virgo Eus- 
sica me respuit. 



NOTE TO HACON. 

Hacon the Good is well known in history. He was a 
brave and skilful warrior, and subjected all Norway to 
his power. His reigu was loug and prosperous, but was 
disturbed by the sons of his brother Eric, who, taking up 
their abode in Denmark, made frequent attacks on his 
kingdom. Hacon was a Christian, and endeavored to per- 
suade his people to embrace Christianity, but met with 
strong opposition. 

He was feasting in the island of Storda, his native 
place, when messengers arrived announcing the approach 
of a large army led by oue of the sons of Eric. He im- 
mediately engaged the enemy and put them to flight, but 
was himself mortally wounded. Taken into his ship he 



144 TRANSLATIONS. 

soon expired. Ilis last words were—" Had a longer life 
been granted to me, I would have left my kingdom and 
country, and seeking the society of Christian men, would 
have expiated the faults I have committed against God. 
If, however, I am to die here among Pagans, pay the just 
dues to the dead, in the manner that shall seem best to 
you." He died a. d. 963. 

This song was composed on bis death by the celebrated 
Eyvixdr Skalldaspillir. It is one of the oldest speci- 
mens of Norwegian poetry, and is given entire in Sxorro 
Sturlesox's Saga Hakonar Goda. This poem illustrates 
the popular belief of the ancient Norsemen, that Odin 
sent his Yalkyrjor before a battle to choose those who 
were to fall in the conflict, and to conduct their souls 
after death to Valhalla. 



